Giving Thanks
by lafiametta
Summary: As she is preparing Sir Walter for his funeral, Marion makes some discoveries, with the help of Robin Longstride.


The winding sheet went three times round the body. Marion would have asked for help from one of the house servants, but Walter was old and frail, and it wasn't difficult to lift him.

She sang quietly under her breath. An old Saxon melody she had heard as a child, but could never remember the exact words to. She tried not to cry. She kept her hands busy, wrapping the linen cloth around him, smoothing it out into proper pleats around his chest and arms.

The sword was next. She made sure it was grasped tightly in his hands, like the old warrior he was. Foolish Walter, she thought, as she rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. Why did he try to fight in the condition that he was in, old and blind and without a chance of success? What did he mean to die for?

She had to stop for a moment, her eyes clenched tight as she held back everything that was pouring over her. Walter had been like her father. For ten years he had been her almost constant companion. With Robert gone, they had fallen into easy routine, as she ran his household, managed his servants, fed his dogs, all as a good daughter-in-law should. But he had been kind to her, not like many noblemen were to their sons' wives. He had trusted her, relied on her, and she rewarded him with maintaining the estate with all her strength and good grace. And now he was gone. She tried not to think about what her life would be like now that he was not in it, especially now that she had no rights to their land and it was technically forfeit to the king. She felt rootless and empty, and her hands shook as she began to think about what had happened that afternoon.

She remembered his warm breath on her face, thick with wine. The shaft of sunlight across his eyes as he studied the length of her. Her heart, beating like an injured rabbit in a snare as she sensed no escape. And, as he had touched her, she remembered what she had been thinking of. Marion's eyes opened with a start: she had been thinking of Robin.

Why, of all people, would his face have come to her thoughts as she was about to be savaged? Surely she couldn't associate him – for all his teasing and unrefined yeoman's glances – with such an unspeakable act? At once, she realized that was exactly what it was. She wanted _his_ hands on her, _his_ breath across her cheek, _his_ eyes staring deep into hers. If a man was to touch her, she wanted it to be him, and she would have imagined him there, his fingertips tracing up the backs of her knees, even if it hadn't been him at all.

Did she love him? Maybe a little. Did she want him? With every inch of her, something she hadn't felt since her husband had left her so many years ago.

She laughed at herself. How foolish she was! A widow of thirty-six, with no money, about to be expelled from the home she had known for so long. What could she offer a man, who, while not of noble blood, certainly had the means and conviction to make something of himself in the world? How could she not be more than a passing interest, a quick partner in a courtly game of deception that clearly would not last the season?

"Marion?"

She turned suddenly, startled. There he was, in front of her, as if she had summoned him with her thoughts.

She kept her eyes down, ashamed of the images that held fast in her mind. Her face was burning.

"Yes?" She answered shortly, afraid her voice would betray her.

"Will you be needing any assistance? In moving Sir Walter?"

"As you can see, I'm managing quite well here."

He moved closer, but she sidestepped, leaving space between them.

"Marion?"

"Hmmm?"

She looked up at him, seeing that his eyes were fastened hard onto hers. She found herself transfixed by their intensity.

"Marion, you cannot move him out of this chapel all by yourself. You're going to need some help."

"Who will you get?"

"What good are men-at-arms for, if they cannot fulfill solemn duties? I'm sure the four of us will make short work of it."

"Of course," she said, realizing that was all he wanted from her, that he had simply come out of courtesy.

He nodded briefly, turning to go.

"Robin?" she blurted, not quite realizing what she was doing.

He turned back to face her, his palm resting on the stone doorframe.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

He looked slightly confused.

"For coming back today, I mean. I thought you might, but I didn't know." She paused, looking for something else to say. "Walter would have been pleased, at your loyalty."

"I didn't come back for Walter."

"Well, for the bargain you struck, at least." She felt awkward, her mouth dry. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm glad you came back. For whatever reason."

"I came back for you."

The words shook her. She didn't dare to hope that they meant something more than simple courtesy or chivalrous intent.

"That is kind of you to say."

"Marion, listen to me." He halved the distance between them. "I came back _for you_. I would have killed each and every one of them, to get to you."

She tried to turn away, to hide her face, but he had reached for her, his broad hand clasping her hair and neck.

She didn't move. She couldn't. It was as if she was made of glass, and might shatter into a thousand pieces. His eyes, hard and green, had fixed upon her, like a man raked with thirst. No man had ever looked at her that way. Her heart leapt with both joy and terror.

"Sir…I…" she began to protest.

His thumb grazed lightly over her lips, stopping up the words that were tumbling out.

"Shhhh," he whispered, as if to a startled animal.

Something within her broke, purely from the tidal force of emotion washing over her heart. She moved instinctually towards him – without thought or plan, without consideration for propriety or stricture – meeting his mouth with hers, and finding something she knew to be true and right.

As they kissed, it was if she had discovered something she had never even known was lost, some part of herself that she had secreted away and forgotten.

He held her tightly against him, she grasping at his collar, his hair. They beat and battered against each others' defenses, trying only to hold fast against the deluge that meant to engulf them entirely.

She knew at once that the troubadours' poems, the courtly songs, the tales she had heard as young girl, were all lies. At best, they were simply play-actors' shadows. No one could describe such a feeling, not with words.

"Where have you come from, Robin Longstride?" she whispered against his lips.

"Does it truly matter?"

"No." She opened her eyes to take her fill of him. "Not as long as you stay."

"I swear it." He kissed her lower lip delicately. "I mean to be your champion, milady. If you will have me."

"And I will be yours, milord. We shall fight against all comers."

He grinned at her, a rare occurrence. It was as if the sun had come out.

"An unorthodox pairing, I'm sure. And perhaps not what Sir Walter had in mind when he bargained you for me."

Their faces turned to where Walter lay. She was ashamed for almost having forgotten he was there, silently waiting to be laid to rest.

"Come, my lady." He grasped her hand, kissing the back of it fiercely. "Let us show our duty to Sir Walter. And thank God for giving a blind man the ability to see what no one else in this wide world could have imagined."

She smiled. "Summon your men-at-arms, then. I will finish here."

As he left the chapel, his presence still somehow filling the space, Marion leaned down to Walter. She kissed him on the forehead, as a daughter would.

"Thank you, Walter. For everything."


End file.
